


Cornibus et sanguine: Plumae gloria

by Jessica_not_Jones, Mithen



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biblical References, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Forbidden Love, Greek Empire, Heavy Angst, Lawyers, Medieval Lifetime, Memory Loss, Miscommunication, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Rejection, Renaissance Era, Samurai, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-04-19 02:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessica_not_Jones/pseuds/Jessica_not_Jones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: When the warrior angel Kal El rejects his soulmate- a chaos demon from the underworld- the animosity that harbors between the two of them turns to unfathomable rage, and begins a celestial war in the primordial realms. They are cast from the heavens by the creator as their powers grow too strong, cursed to reincarnate and meet anew in every lifetime until they become the soulmates the universe made them to be.The impossible becomes reality, and everything goes wrong when Bruce and Clark begin to remember their past lives...(On hiatus)





	1. Autem Principium // The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is a big deal for me, so to start off I'd like to thank my beta readers and co creators [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen) and [TheResurrectionist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist) for helping me so much with my plot and ideas and for encouraging me to work on this fic idea because I honestly don't think I could do this alone without their moral support too❤️️. 
> 
> This is just the beginning to set the scene for the entire story, and I mean no disrespect with what I write to anyone who is religious so please take everything a grain of salt ^_^. Subscribe to see updates, and I really hope you guys like this!

 

* * *

 

In the beginning the universe and all the realms within it was overseen by the Creator.

Above all the others lay the primordial realms- the place where the immortals roamed before the creation of mortal beings. In this realm there were both the Heavens, ruled by the Father, and the Underworld ruled by the King of the Fallen Angels, Helel.

At this time, the earth had just begun to flourish and humanity looked promising for the first time in ages. However, as mankind was beginning to develop, they were now fighting a losing battle. Demons walked the earths and plagued them with famine, possessed their bodies, burned their cities and wreaked havoc wherever they went.

Men waged war on each other, brother killed brother and women and children hid in fear praying to the heavens for peace. At the centre of it all was Helel, sitting on his throne in the darkness and aided by his right hand, the Nameless One.

In the heavens, a meeting is held.

 

* * *

 

“You ask too much of me Kal El.”

The angels, defenders of the heavens and mankind, had begun a cleansing of the underworld, ridding the caverns of malicious demons that brought chaos to the universe. At the head of every battle was the Cherubim warrior angel Kal El. He was the bringer of hope, and harbinger of death for all who opposed the heavens. When he visited Hell, he massacred the satanic and burned the blasphemous, returning only when his wings were too heavy with blood to be lifted anymore, and his sword would grow too dull to be used.

He was called the Celestial Beast of the heavens by those who roamed the darkness.

In the throne room, he lay dressed in the finest crafted armor, his hair braided down his back and halo of sunlight drifting above his head that shone almost as bright as the fire in his eyes.

“My lord, I must go back! The enemies of heaven must be destroyed. The longer we wait, the more of my brethren will fall to Helel. Must humanity bear the weight of his evil for my insolence?”

Even kneeling in subservience to his King and creator, he manages to exude righteous fury enough to make nearby Seraphim shake in their exaltations.

“Obeying your king is not insolence Kal El, it is obedience.” As he speaks the room shakes, but the warrior angel does not fear his wrath. He keeps his stance, but dares not set his eyes on the throne.

“I am the all knowing and all being. Do you not think I do not know of his plans? Do you not think Helel is accountable to me? I see everything that has been, is and will be. It is not your place. However long it may take, Helel _will_ come to me himself and it is up to humanity whether or not they will go to him.”

“Then I yield, Father. I will do only as instructed.” He bows his head and brings himself as low to the floor as possible, his wings sweeping the sparkling gold and fluttering softly.

“As you were created to do. You may go to the darkness and spread your wrath as you wish, but my word is what binds your existence young one. When you enter his domain, the king is to remain untouched.”

“What of his aide, Lord? Should he not pay for his sins?” Kal El can feel the warmth in the smile of the creator despite not being able to look upon him.

“If you encounter the Nameless One, you will do as you see fit. I expect no less of you.”

When Kal El leaves, the other Cherubim gaze at him wearily.

* * *

 

The walk to the gates of hell was quiet. The scent of his very presence sent young demons and imps scattering, and after the many times he’d walked it there was a sunken trail of his footprints embedded in the grey ashen ground, singed at the edges from the unfathomable heat his bodily form produced.

The closer he got to the gates, the brighter his halo glowed, illuminating the path before him and blinding the stragglers and cursed who lay hiding in the dark on the outskirts of the Fallen Kingdom.

“Your great creator sends only you? Followers, mark this day. The all knowing Father sends a lowly Cherub to fight my thirty legions. I am Astaroth, great Duke of Hell, crusher of souls and servant to the Nameless One and Helel himself. Tell me what they call you so I might recall it when I smite you.”

Clark chuckles and takes off his leather cloak revealing his angelic regalia and lifts his wings in full stride.

“I am Kal El, messenger or righteous fury, slayer of demons, and the Celestial Beast of heaven. I fear that I bear bad news.”

Astaroth shakes in rage, and charges with his full army. “I will end you in the name of Helel!”

Kal El mutters to himself, “Not this day, Demon.”

He soars into the air and strikes Astaroth, exchanging blow for blow. The rest of the demons do not dare to come closer, and as the fight progresses, the demon gets weaker and weaker while the angel grows stronger, summoning his warrior form and killing the deformed beast in a burst of white light.

The rest of the halflings, demons and imps come forth in troves and he kills them off as his sword glows with angelic runes and burns them to gold dust or melts them to black blood. His wings are spattered with it all, and his hair and armor drips in it, but still he fights on.

The closer he gets to the castle of Helel, the less demons challenge him. He only realizes this too late.

The aide of the king has been awaiting him.

“Kal El. I hear you wish to seek battle with me.”

The Nameless One is not as terrifying as he is spoken of. He does not have twenty heads, or a beast’s face or the body of a lion. He takes the form of a seven foot body very similar to that of an angel, with long sweeping hair that falls into his eyes, a mouth littered with pointed teeth and atop his head are a pair of rams horns colored like fresh blood.

He carries two broadswords thick as a man’s head, and wears no chest armor but instead has his entire torso and chest bound in chains. The angel finds himself looking at it for too long.

“Do you know why they bind me like this, oh great Celestial Beast of the heavens? Even my king fears me. If I were to ever get a deep breath again, I could spew fire hotter than the pits of hell that would melt the clouds you blessed angels walk on.”

“I do not see why they did not bind your tongue as well, Nameless One. If it is a name you seek, I shall give you one. They will call you the Defeated One, and I will mark it myself in the book of history.”

“Come forth then,” the demon growls, drawing his swords and baring his teeth, “and let me show you _exactly_ why your master ripped my wings and tossed me from the heavens.”

Kal El charges forward, blade lifted and a battle cry falling from his lips. The others around them stand paralyzed as their weapons meet again and again, each strike resounding through the whole domain.

The demon grabs Kal El by his wings and tosses him into a pillar of rocks, but not before the angel breaks one of his swords. Breaking the pillar, the warrior lifts himself into the air and flies straight towards the other, weapon raised for a fatal blow.

When the Nameless one sees the attack, he lifts his single sword to parry the strike and an earth shaking blast occurs where celestial gold meets stygian iron, exploding with a burst of blinding silver light that knocks the two apart and incinerates every demon in its range.

In a haze, the two get up but Kal El immediately falls to his knees in pain as a white hot fire covers his neck. The Nameless One screams in agony, but remains standing just barely. When the angel opens his eyes, he sees the demon’s shape flickering.

It is as though he cannot stay in his demon form anymore, and his skin fades between ashen grey and pristine pearl while his horns have disappeared entirely. The chains fall from his body, and he abandons his demonic appearance, shifting to his Seraphim form, though he is without his wings. His fanged teeth are gone, and he looks like Kal El’s brethren of old in the Lord’s Halls.

Struggling to his feet, Kal El holds his hands to his neck and feels the raised markings. In the shining obsidian pool next to him he sees it.

A soul mate mark.

He clutches his neck tighter in horror. He was destined to be bound to the very monster he was made to destroy. The person he was supposed to spend eternity with was an enemy of heaven, a murderer, a fallen one and no more than a mere monster.

As he looks back at the Seraphim, the other sweeps his sable locks over his left shoulder, and surely it’s there. The matching runes in white gold adorn the Nameless One’s neck as well, shining brightly in the shadows where he stands.

“No. This can’t be.” Kal El shakes his head in disbelief. The father must have made a mistake.

“Kal El-”

“No! I am not spending eternity in hell with you and beasts like you do not deserve to walk in the light of the creator!”

The angel spreads his wings, and flies straight out of the kingdom shrouded in darkness, and back to the silver bridge that leads him home. He doesn’t look back to see the other’s face, and he certainly doesn’t see the beam of light that falls over him, signalling the fallen one home.

 

* * *

 

Kal El walks slowly to the throne room, wings held tight against his back and hair braided and tied with a mourning chain. Michael’s face looks solemn as he opens the endlessly tall golden door.

As he enters, the warrior falls on one knee with his face to the floor and wings spread.

A sign of apology.

“Kal El, rise my child.” He slowly drags himself off the floor, but his face still bears the weight of his shame.

“My lord, you know all that is. Do you believe I could love such a creature?”

“You must first save him before you can love him. You know this as well as I, for it is already written.”

“What if he is beyond saving?”

“No one is beyond grace Kal El, not even him.”

Gabriel, who stands across from the throne, clears his throat.

“He may not be beyond saving, but he is not quite beyond the gate either.”

“Your brother speaks the truth, Kal El. For ninety days he has waited for your presence at the gates. If you do not go to him, he will surely come to you. I fear Raphael’s patience grows thin.”

The angel’s face hardens.

“Then tell him I will not come.”

The creator already knew as much, and dismisses the warrior. He and Gabriel share a knowing look.

* * *

 

 

For years the Seraphim battles Michael, Raphael, Salaphiel and Uriel, determined to enter heaven and see his soul mate. Day and night, he fights one after the other with no break, demanding to be let in, and screaming he was summoned by the father.

“It is my right to enter, Michael!”

“You’ve called the same words on your tongue for nine years, and tasted not a drop of food or drink. Will you not give up, Fallen One? Does the ache of your heart antagonize you so much?”

“He will see me, Michael. He must.”

“If you knew Kal El at all, you would know that all the hosts of heaven could not make him do something he did not wish to. Unless you receive a direct summons from the father, you shall not step foot past these gates, nor lay your eyes upon him.”

As Raphael leaves, Uriel takes his place to draw his sword again.

“I do not wish to fight you, Uriel.”

“No, you do not. Alas, you do seek to find Kal El, and if he does not wish to be found then I must fight you because I have been ordered not to let you pass the gates in your wrath.”

The bell tolls and the Seraphim falls to his knees, almost drained of energy. That sound marked the beginning of the tenth year he had gone without seeing his mate, and he was growing even weaker to the point where he could scarcely summon his fire or sword.

“Does your strength fail you now, Fallen One?” asks Uriel, hovering over his ward. Shock crosses his face for a moment as the other goes to lift himself off his knees but collapses, unmoving.

When he receives no answer he swoops down, binding the lifeless body and begins to carry him to the master.

“Uriel, what madness are you beginning?” asks Salaphiel once he is within the gates.

“Did you not hear the Lord? He said not to let the Nameless One pass the gates in his wrath. He does not appear to have any wrath left in him, does he?” asks the archangel, gesturing to the sleeping form he held.

“If your judgment holds true, I should say yes.”

* * *

 

When Kal El is summoned to the throne, he does not expect the sight before him.

Michael has the Nameless One bound in chains and kneeling before the creator, while they all look towards him as though they’d been waiting for him.

“Look at who has finally deigned to grace us with his face again, Gabriel,” mutters Raphael gloomily.

As the Kal El pauses, the Seraphim begins to struggle in his bindings, trying to get closer to his mate. An almost euphoric feeling sweeps over his body at the sight of his destined one and he can feel his strength coming back to him from just being in the same room. A few more moments and he would be back to his full power.

“Move again, Demon and I will slay you before my king,” says Michael, hand on his sword. The prisoner below him tenses and locks his jaw.

“Why am I here, Lord?” asks the warrior, bowing before he speaks.

Before a response is made, the fallen angel breaks his bindings, and takes on his demon form, baring his teeth at Michael as his horns grow back to their blood red spirals.

“Did you really think those would hold me, Michael?”

“No,” he says, drawing his sword, “But I’d hoped you would at least amuse me for a while in the falsehood.”

“I am here to Kal El and the creator. Not any other being.”

“I told you I will not spend my life with a demon, and I meant it. I have spent my eons alone, and I will do it again. You are no soul mate of mine.”

“You will either love me or hate me, Kal El. It is written.”

“Then we are mortal enemies, so draw your sword demon. I will finish what I began.”

As the demon takes a deep breath, prepared to spew fire amongst the room, a rumble shakes the whole heaven.

“Braciel. Stop this.”

“You dare use my name?” he asks, enraged at the creator and glowing in a fiery red haze.

“Was it not I who named you? Did I not pick the finest star and mold you from it and call you Braciel, maker of the flame and bringer of righteous fury? How could you not believe in me and my ability to know your destiny?”

“Which destiny? The one where you took my very soul and cast me out of my home? The one in which you bind me to a heart unrequited? The one where you curse me to walk on two legs after ripping my wings from me and tossing me to the darkness?”

“You were becoming too wrathful as you are now. Your very rebellion and attempts of destruction of the sacred texts proved your heart was impure, just as your new master’s. Leave or you will be moved, Braciel.”

As he says this, all seven Archangels appear and the other Seraphim in the room shift to their bodily form, ready to carry out any order by their master’s wishes.

He locks eyes with Kal El, and there is nothing but hatred left in his gaze.

“This is not over.”

He sinks into a puddle of shadow, and disappears.

The angel feels a pang of something like loss, but hides it at the bottom of his heart like the traitor it is.

* * *

 

 

For another twenty years Braciel wages war on the heavens, using all the forces of evil at Helel’s disposal. Every beast, demon, imp and angel in the darkness joins his forces to break the walls of the Angel Kingdom.

When the celestial war becomes too much, Helel goes to the creator.

“You must end it.”

“Is Braciel not a servant of _yours_ , Helel?”

“Indeed, but I cannot cast him from hell, and it is not within my power to cast him from the primordial realms. If I expend all of my forces on his petty war I will have no kingdom to rule, and you will have no angels to protect your precious humanity.”

“What would you have me do? Kill them?”

“Not at all, you haven’t the wrath for it. I do not care where they go, as long as it is not in my domain.”

 

The all knowing one sighs. “Gabriel, sound the horn of peace.”

 

When the horn blows, both halves of the battle pause as it vibrates across the whole realm, invoking a temporary ceasefire; Demons retreat and angels fly away, while Kal El and Braciel are summoned before their masters.

“Your rage grows too strong, Kal El. Your very presence endangers the delicate balance of the celestial systems.” says the creator, his heart saddened at the turmoil his angel was in.

“And you, Braciel, you take far too much from me and give nothing in return. I give you my armies, power and people to rule over but yet you waste it all on this angel who will never love you.” spits Helel.

“If you continue down this path,” they both say, “you will bring chaos to the realms. As such you are being banished to earth until you reconcile your hearts and are deemed worthy to come home.”

“But my Lord-”

“Silence! I have had enough of your rashness Kal El. You will be stripped of your wings, your immortality and your memories. As fate would have it, the two of you will meet again in each lifetime until your soulmate bond is complete and only _then_ may you return. The war must end, and this is the only way.”

“Father please!”

“I am sorry my child, but it is already written. Raphael, do what you must.”

The warrior bows his head in acquiescence, and screams as the blade severs his wings from his body, taking pieces of his soul with it. Braciel feels the phantom pain of the cut and looks away while the gold blood runs down his mate’s back, traitorous tears threatening to spill from his eyes.Things start to start to get blurry as they begin to lose their memories but the angels are vaguely aware of being walked to the edge of the cloud rift.

The last thing Braciel sees is Gabriel’s apologetic glance before he is kicked off the edge and falling from the heavens yet again.


	2. Postea Cecederit// After the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne is not an ordinary child, and he'd really like it if he didn't have to be hopped up on a medical concoction just to function on a daily basis. After all, how many kids do you know with mental disorders that make them see visions?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, it's been a while but I'm updating a little earlier than I said I would. Mithen and I got a little time to work on this chapter, but please be warned, there are triggers for panic attacks and also references to mental disorders, delusions and medicinal drug use here, along with me poking my little author fingers into some biblical allusions that I distorted to fit my story, so PLEASE take everything with a grain of salt!!!
> 
> Thanks and hope you like it!

 

 

In the year 1973, Bruce Wayne is born to Gotham socialites and activists Martha and Thomas Wayne. Alfred holds the newborn child for the first time, and smiles as his little hands grip a well worn finger.

 

From above, the angels observe yet another beginning for their lost brother Braciel.

 

“He always appears somewhat strange as child, does he not Raphael?”

 

Michael absentmindedly pets the lion lounging next to him outside the throne room where he and his brother were stationed. The mighty cat simply rolls over and purrs contentedly, stretching its long limbs over onto Raphael’s sandal clad feet.

 

“We have observed his birth many a time- I cannot see how this one is apart from any other, brother. I only care for the likelihood of his resolution with Kal El.” The archangel says, preening his wings while speaking.

 

“Perhaps you might check the books of time if it burns you so to not know Braciel’s fate?”

 

“I’d attempted such a feat already, but the script was as such that I could not read it. I should assume that the father wants no interfering with his plans. It might be that he does not think us worthy of knowing his intents for Kal El and his soulmate…”

 

“If _you_ could not read it, that means it is not open to the eyes of _any_ angel and their fate is solely known by the creator then. I am more than content to watch over them as it is far more entertaining than guarding the gates.”

 

“You speak lies. You want only to watch Braciel die but another time, Michael. You despise him almost as much as the beloved morning star.”

 

“I will not agree or disagree with you brother, but you know as well as I that Helel is no longer the beloved morning star of the creator. Furthermore, I never claimed Braciel to be favoured in my books. I just wish that his soul would not suffer in this life as much as the others.” Michael replies in a haughty tone, fiddling with the golden rope of his belt.

 

“That is kind of you, but there is only one way to know.”

 

With this the two angels turn their gaze back to the earth, where Martha holds a sleeping baby boy, smiling at him and completely unaware of the life her son was going to have.

 

* * *

   
  
  


When Bruce is eight years old, his parents are murdered in Crime Alley.

 

Alfred takes custody of the boy, soothing his fears when he wakes up from nightmares of his mother’s screaming and his father’s shouts, with phantom feelings as though he was covered in blood and tripping over the endless pearls that had once adorned her porcelain neck.

 

It takes months before he stops hearing the echo of the gunshots in an empty room, and he wasn’t yet capable of erasing the image of the life leaving his parents’ eyes as they held hands for the last time.

 

As he continues with his lifestyle of ‘learning to cope’ as Alfred calls it, Bruce slowly notices that something is terribly, terribly wrong with him. He rarely leaves the house, and only at his butler’s request when he is sent out of the manor with complaints that he would get rickets if he kept staying inside so much.

 

On one of the more unusually bright days -for Gotham at least- Bruce wanders out on the estate amongst the greenery and just sits. He ignores the fact that he’s getting his trousers dirty, that he hadn’t told Alfred where he was going or that he would be expected inside for lunch shortly and just sits on the grass, watching his pale hands as he cards his fingers through the wildflowers.

 

After laying back in the soft bed of leaves, he gazes at the sky remembering how not so long ago he’d do the same with his mother. Bruce looks at the clouds in the countless lofty shapes and feels his eyes slowly closing, but doesn’t fight it.

 

The breeze is so pleasant on his face, and the birds make their songs so prettily in the trees that provide enough shade to keep the murky light from the sun out of his eyes.

 

Within in a minute, Bruce is asleep.

* * *

  


_Flashing._

 

_All of it came in fragments, each image barely discernible from the next. Pearl white skin, long robes, falling feathers, clashing swords, golden doors and obsidian ink shuttered before his eyes like film on a camera. Images of battles fought, fearsome beasts and blood red horns adorning a regal head moved at a speed almost too quick to process._

 

_Surging._

 

_The cacophony of feelings melded into one tidal wave of emotions, overbearing his mind so that he couldn’t wake himself up. Searing pain, blinding rage, internalized heartbreak, building panic, breathing fire. Complete despair at the thought of a loss he doesn’t remember. Relentless agony of his spine being ripped and his broken body tossed like waste. The bitter taste of rejection._

 

_Clanging._

 

_The sound of pure chaos echoes in his mind, reverberating through the empty cavern that is his sleeping consciousness. The grate of metal on metal, the screech of masses crying, the bells tolling in the distance, the hellhounds growling and the fire roaring. The heavy beating of tired wings, and the warcry of crumbling cities on their last breath before being overrun with demons._

 

_Then a voice._

 

_“Braciel. Wake Up.”_

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


Bruce wakes up with a gasp, his lungs on fire and tears flowing from his eyes. His hands are shaking but he can’t get them to stop.

 

He tries to make sense of what he’d dreamt but the more he tries to think about it, the more he gets a sharp pain between his eyes and he watches in horror as his nose drips blood on his dirt covered hands. It takes him almost half an hour before he can steady his breathing, and another twenty minutes to stop his entire body from trembling despite the lack of chill.

 

He rinses his hands and face in the garden birdbath- tinging the clear water pink-  before going back to the manor, eyes bloodshot and murmuring an excuse of having fell down a bit roughly while playing.

 

It would have been okay-perhaps a one time experience that he could have blamed on stress- if he didn’t keep having these ‘dreams’ again, and again and _again._

 

These ‘dreams’  slowly began to seem less like dreams and more like memories, because despite everything he tried, Bruce simply _could not_ forget them. He no longer needed to be asleep to see them anymore, and much to his distress he was starting to lose time as he slipped into trance like states in the middle of his studies or conversations.

 

Alfred wisely made no commentary, but gave him concerned frowns as he began to lose focus more frequently and his eyes would glaze over as he was drawn into visions of a language that didn’t exist, amongst people who weren’t real in a dimension that simply wasn’t physically possible.

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


The last straw happens two years later, during a thunderstorm.

 

Bruce sits alone in the bedroom, ignoring Alfred’s pleas to come out and at least eat something. The young boy knows the butler’s tactic well and refuses to fall for it. Alfred will convince him  to come out, and spare his pride by not acknowledging the fact that he is still afraid of lightning and thunder.

 

He doesn’t want tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and fond head pats right now. The  lights in his room are all off and the only sound aside from his almost silent breathing is the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

 

“Master Bruce, I really must ask you to come out of the room. I’m sure you’re aware I value your privacy but if I must I will get the key and open this door.” The concern in his tone is palpable and the younger swears he hears a slight break in the typically smooth voice.

 

“I’m fine, Alfred. I would really like to be left alone right now.”

 

A sigh.

 

“If you insist Master Bruce...please know that I’m only a staircase away should you decide you would like some company.”

 

It’s a simple sentence, but it bears more weight than it would seem. Bruce smiles softly and sits in the dark still, eyes focused on the grain in the hardwood floor and muscles tense as he awaits the appearance of the storm. The sound of falling rain does nothing to soothe him as it once did.

 

He has to do this alone.

 

There was no way for him to explain that he was forcing himself to face his fears and put an end to his god forsaken visions. He wouldn’t dare tell the only person who was there for him that there was something wrong with him. In the black of the night, a single tear slides down his cheek.

As he raises his hand to brush it away, the first flash of lightning breaks, burning his eyes with white light and the clap of thunder that follows it makes him clench every muscle in his jaw.   

 

Before he can even take a breath he’s thrown headfirst into another vision.

  
  
  
  


_“What does a forsaken angel like you need from me then Braciel?”_

 

_Braciel glares at the white haired man sitting on an iron throne in a room black as night._

 

_“What do any of us come to you for Lucifer? I want a new beginning.”_

 

_“If you’re going to work for me, you will call me Helel. Just as you are no longer Braciel, the new morning star, I am no longer Lucifer, bringer of light. Now tell me little brother, what have you done to bear the wrath of the creator?”_

 

_“I attempted to burn the book of time and history.”_

 

_The king looks at him with a visage of shock, and motions to a nearby minion to serve him more wine._

 

_“Bold. Very Bold. Now what inspired you to do such a thing? Surely there was a reason for such an act of blatant madness.” He sips from his goblet, bringing his platinum locks over to one side and gazing back expectantly with piercing red eyes. Were he a weaker man Braciel may have been shaken._

 

_“I wanted to rewrite it. It was prophesied that...that I would be rejected by my soulmate. I wanted to change the books so that I would never have one.”_

 

_“You know as well as I that such a feat is impossible. In burning the book you would destroy the fabric of time amongst all of mankind and most of the celestial realms. You would erase every event that had been just to change one that would inevitably be?”_

 

_“Yes.” The answer is unwavering._

 

_“The creator always did say there was a thin line between love and hate. I suppose that is why we are both here, yes?”_

 

_“Are you saying you truly loved your soulmate then?” The break of silence is heavier in the throne room and the grotesque servants all look to the floor before their king even answers. No one in the underworld would dare ask Helel such a thing._

 

_“Of course I do. But that does not alter what has taken place and as you know there is no changing my fate now. So I encourage you, keep your soulmate. Don’t lose his love as I lost mine.”_

 

_“You lost the love of no one more than the love of the father when you attempted to ascend to the throne. Surely losing your soulmate could not have been a loss as great as that?”_

 

 _“You misunderstand me Braciel. The father_ was _my soulmate. In all things there must be balance, yes? The entire universe centres around the separation of the creator and I. I knew this, but in my heartbreak I wanted to take everything from him before he could cast me out as I knew he would, but you know he was more powerful than me. It was my destiny to become what I am, just as it is yours to become what you will be. What sets you apart from me is that you will be granted a chance for redemption. If you love your soulmate you can redeem yourself, because you are not me. While your Lord still loves me in all my monstrosity, I do not love him anymore. That is why I cannot be saved.”_

 

_“I don’t want redemption, Helel. I want freedom from a bond to someone who will do nothing but break me again.”_

 

_“It is in breaking you that he will mend you, little one. As you grow older you will understand this. Alas that is quite a long time into the future, and I require your assistance now. If you are to serve in Hell, you will not look like the scrap of the heavens. Relax...this may hurt you more than you would like.”_

 

_With a wave of his hands, Helel surrounds him in black ash, and begins molding him from angel to demon._

 

_Braciel’s once pearl skin becomes an ashen grey, his regal braid with strands of woven gold is changed to flat black hair covering his blood red eyes and meeting his waist, and his jaw becomes littered with razor sharp teeth that burst through his mouth like flowers in spring._

 

_As his lips begin to spill his blackened blood, Braciel falls to his knees holding his head that feels as though it is splitting in two. From his scalp grows a pair of crimson ram's horns and as he attempts to scream his chest is bound in chains so tight that he can’t breathe._

 

_“I’m afraid I cannot allow you to speak just yet. You are no longer a servant of the creator, nor are you Braciel of the Seraphim of the heavens. You are mine, and you are the Nameless One, avenger of evil and drinker of blood.”_

 

_As he says this, Helel drops two broadswords on the floor next to the writhing beast and smiles._

 

_“You won’t need these anymore will you? Only angels need wings.”_

 

_As he speaks, he presses his flaming hands to the open wounds with the remnants of Braciel’s wings in tatters after they’d been ripped away before his exile. The resounding growl is feral and makes the ground for miles vibrate._

 

_“Now, Nameless One, you may speak.”_

 

_When crimson eyes flutter and his bloodied mouth opens, not a word comes out._

 

_Instead all he can breathe is fire, so much so that the throne room is in flames and Helel laughs gleefully as the pillars crumble to ashes and the servants burn alive._

 

_“Now little one, what will you call me?”_

 

_“Master.”_

 

_As the nameless one picks up his swords, Helel prepares for war._

 

* * *

 

  


Bruce comes out of the vision and the storm is still going on, but he can’t focus on the lightning, thunder, Alfred’s rapid knocking and concerned calls from outside or the ticking of the clock.

 

**He needs to breathe.**

 

In the next crack of lightning, the room is illuminated and when the young boy makes the mistake of looking up, attached to his shadow is the outline of a pair of wings, small, broken and pathetic looking.

 

The light disappears and the room falls into darkness again, taking the forsaken shadow with it until Alfred finally opens the door, running to his young ward and embracing the crying boy. As Bruce looks up, he lets out a blood curdling scream just in time with the thunder because now that his butler has turned on the light the shadow is back and it’s _not going away._

 

He swats at it hysterically, sobbing and kicking and screaming but the black outline of the wings do not go away.

 

“Master Bruce, please calm down-”

 

“Get it away from me Alfred! Get it away from me!”

 

The butler holds the child to his chest, believing him to be genuinely terrified of the storm and the younger closes his eyes so tightly that they may never open again, hiding his face in Alfred’s shoulder and refusing to look at anything.

 

They stay like this for hours, his silent tears and shuddering slowly dying down. When the boy’s small frame finally stops shaking and his breathing evens out into slumber, the elder puts him to sleep and stays outside his door all night.

 

Little does he know, Bruce does not sleep at all, but rather stays awake all night, fingers dancing over his shadow on the wall until the sun comes up and his eyes get too tired of looking at the crooked bone structure of broken wings that he realised no one else could see.

 

* * *

 

  
  


“Alfred, I think I need to go to a psychiatric hospital.” This of course is said while the man is making his young ward breakfast.

 

“Master Bruce, whatever do you mean?”

 

After his explanation the butler drops the spatula and his eyes begin to water.

 

“Bruce, my darling boy, I will do everything I can to help you. Firstly, I think we should get you an evaluation, yes?”

 

Alfred’s usual fond smile seems more forced as he makes a call to Gotham Asylum.

 

-

 

The lady that comes to see him is pleasant enough, and while she asks him a lot of questions and administers a rorschach test that makes him feel slightly uncomfortable, the woman flits rather quickly between him and her clipboard as he explains his visions and the shadows he’s begun to see. Bruce’s only comfort left is the stack of non disclosure agreements that the woman is forced to sign.

 

After a hushed conversation with Alfred, including more skittish hand gestures than he’d ever seen the man use in his life, Bruce is informed that he’s been prescribed a cocktail of medications.

 

“Alfred, what are these going to do exactly?” He says as he stares into his palm holding a handful of different pills.

 

“Well Bruce, two of these are antipsychotics that are supposed to minimize your hallucinations, two are antidepressants to help you feel less sad, and the other is a mood stabilizer to manage any temperamental changes from the other medications.”

 

“If I take these, will I be normal again?” He looks up at the man with doe eyes and Alfred finds himself frozen.

 

“I- I could only hope so Master Bruce.”

 

The young boy looks at the colourful tablets for a moment, and then proceeds to take an overly large gulp of water and swallows all five pills at once with a slight gag.

 

“I don’t feel different,” he murmurs with a pout.

 

Alfred chuckles. “Dear boy, I think it may take a bit longer than that.”

 

It’s fifteen minutes later, and the shadows are gone.

 

* * *

  
  
  
  


For two years, Bruce lives his life in a drug induced haze. The days blur together, and while he’s happy he’s not _happy._

 

Only on the anniversary of his parent’s death does he dare to skip his meds. He doesn’t want to be chemically calmed on a day like that. When he goes to pay his condolences his sincerity will come from him, not a little blue pill that represents everything about himself that he hates.

 

So after he pops out the tablets from the containers, he watches blankly as they tumble down the sink.

 

Today, he doesn’t need them.

 

It’s been four years since they died, and Bruce is determined not to have a panic attack at his parents’ grave. He dons his best suit, gels his hair the way his mother used to, and pins a flower to his lapel. He’s perfected his fake smile at the age of twelve so well that even Alfred doesn’t know he hasn’t taken his medication.

 

He’s delusional apparently, but not stupid.

 

It’s only when he stands under an umbrella in the rain, droplets spread out over his leather shoes does he remember why he always chose to visit his parents right before his dosage instead of skipping his pills entirely.

 

The sharp pain in his head is the only warning he gets before he feels the familiar pull of another vision.

 

* * *

  
  


_The room they’d chosen to stay in was poorly lit by a sad excuse for a candle._

 

_The two young men speaking were using a foreign language, Asian in origin._

 

_Mandarin? Japanese?_

 

_One of the two boys was younger than the other with black hair pulled into a low bun and his slightly older companion kept his long locks open, swaying softly against his back as he moved._

_They continued speaking in low murmurs, as the older man sharpens a knife in the process._

 

_After they both stop speaking they each take the blade and slice their palms, allowing bright red blood to flow freely. They press their foreheads together and join hands, reciting few lines simultaneously and clearly sealing a blood pact._

 

 _The older speaks a name into the night. “_ _Kurāku…”_

 

_The younger responds with a soft whisper. “Burūsu.”_

  
  


Bruce opens his eyes and is still staring at his shoes like before. A glance at his watch tells him he’d only been out of it for less than two minutes.

 

He takes a minute to collect himself, and once the pain in his head subsides, he sits on the nearest bench, not caring about his suit getting damp.

 

He’d experienced a vision of something different. More importantly, this one could be _real_.

The two boys were Japanese, he was sure of it now. Japanese is a real language and Japan is a real place which could mean his original theory of his visions being someone else’s memories could be right.

 

How wrong could he be when he was the only person he knew that could remember every single detail of his so called ‘dreams’?

 

How many people get visions in other languages? How many people could read in their dreams? Just how many people get dreams of what Hell looks like, and could tell you that Lucifer drank red wine from a silver goblet with obsidian rock embedded into it?

 

Bruce was coming to the quick realisation that maybe he wasn’t crazy, but maybe he was simply different.

  


Bruce continues taking the medicine but waits longer between his dosages.

 

In the short stretches when the effects of the drugs wear off, he gets fragments of these visions, occasionally seeing these angelic faces with golden light above them or he would see short memories of Kurāku- training with lengthy samurai blades, laughing, holding his hand, drinking together, looking at him fondly and such things.

 

It makes him take the medicine less and less to the point where he is no longer worried when he sees the shadow of his wings reappear ever so faintly in his peripheral. It phases him even less now.

 

When Bruce gets the next vision of them, he is asleep and the transition is so fluid he honestly doesn’t realise he’s having a vision and not a dream for a few moments.

 

_Burūsu and Kurāku are knelt before their master Ra’s, the pictures of perfectly loyal samurai. They are older now, and more skilled in martial arts and sword play. They have served well and must complete another mission to prove their loyalty yet again._

 

_“You must apprehend our enemy. Do not fail me.”_

 

_The two men make their leave, travelling through wind and snow to find their master’s arch nemesis._

 

_As they approach the last known location of Surīdo, a soft rustle in the bushes garners their attention._

 

_“Did you really think he would be alone against you two?”_

 

_Out of the shade enters a woman who is almost familiar to Burūsu._

 

_“Who are you, and where is your master, woman?” asks Kurāku, sword raised._

 

_“Did you not tell him of our shared moonlight, my love? I thought you said you would remember me forever.”_

 

_“Taria.”_

 

_Another voice answers._

 

_“Indeed. Can you imagine the expression on Ra’s face as he discovers he was betrayed by his own heir, the very daughter he believed dead?” says Surīdo, appearing almost out of thin air._

  


_“It’s a good thing he will not have to believe her dead, because we will reward him with both your heads, you traitors!” screams Kurāku, charging forward with fire in his eyes._

 

_“Kurāku no!”_

_But before he can stop them, Kurāku and Surīdo are fighting blow for blow with each man dodging dismemberment by bare centimetres._

 

_“I believe I deserve some of your attention, Burūsu...or do you not care for me anymore?”_

 

_“The love I once had for you died when you did Taria. I don’t know who you are anymore and I do not want to.”_

 

_She dives straight for him, sai raised and lips curled in fury. The two dance around each other and while he has the upper hand he gets distracted when Kurāku groans in pain after being cut on the upper leg._

 

_In the split second he looks away, Taria throws a white blade that lands deadly near his ribs and sends him to the floor._

 

_“Burūsu!”_

 

_As his partner scrambles over to help him, the two enemies make their exit into the snow but the men cannot follow. It is with great shame the younger man carries his companion back to their master with news of their failure._

 

_Over the next two weeks, Burūsu does not get better but rather progressively sick and when the healer is brought in the woman’s face is grave._

 

_“He has been wounded with a strong lead poisoned blade. He has but a week or less left to live.” As he hears this, Burūsu begs the other to leave, if only to give him the last bits of his dignity, but the younger man refuses to leave his side._

 

_On his last night, the ill man feels his heart beginning to give out, and looks up at his lifelong partner as the younger one wrings out another cold cloth to put on his head._

 

_“I feel my time coming, but I want to thank you. At least now I know your love for me is true.”_

 

_He grips the younger man’s hand as tightly as he can while he takes his last few breaths._

 

_He hears the whispers before the imminent silence._

 

_“You never knew it, but I’ve always loved you, brother.”_

 

_He closes his eyes._

  
  


When Bruce wakes up he’s crying. He can’t help it, because the more of these visions he has, the more attached he gets to these people and he needs to find out who they were before he loses his mind. He heads to the bathroom, washing his face with cold water and looking at his reflection.

 

It takes him a moment to realise it, but he and Burūsu have the exact same eyes. If he looked closely, they also had rather similar bone structure.

 

It could not be a coincidence that Burūsu was the Japanese equivalent of Bruce.

 

The longer he looks at himself, the angrier he gets because he’s beginning to see the resemblance between himself and the men in his visions. It could not be a mistake that he kept having visions of an angel and a samurai who looked like him, and if that were true he definitely _wasn’t_ crazy.

 

He was something, something that probably wasn’t human, but he _wasn’t_ crazy.

 

The sound of all his medicine being flushed down the toilet is oddly satisfying. The next goal was to find out who was this Kurāku... or rather who was this _Clark_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and tell us what you think!
> 
> (Maybe Mithen might respond to one of your comments? Come on Mithen, you know you want to~~

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will mostly likely pop up somewhere between June 24th and July 8th, but while I leave you dying over a cliffhanger in chapter 1, please go check out some works by my co authors because Mithen's fic [36 Views of Mt. Fuji: Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13640916/chapters/31326546) and TheResurrectionist's [The Last of Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467633/chapters/21418841) are insanely amazing!! (or you could tip toe over to my mermaid au...just saying)
> 
> The next few chapters coming up are going to focus on Bruce and Clark's childhood and growing up while beginning to remember their past lives. That should leave you some food for thought, yes? Feel free to drop a comment and tell us what you think!


End file.
